Page 35 of Discord
Brandon appeared bored. “Come sit on my lap.”
“I’m serious, Brandon.”
Ignoring my comment, he opened his arm invitingly.
I huffed. “Focus. I’m trying to save you money.”
“And I’m trying to get you to sit on my lap.”
I stared at him exasperatedly. With a horrid lack of self-respect, my legs moved in his direction. I climbed onto his lap with the documents in hand. He wrapped an arm around my middle and drew me to his chest. Like always, I felt the hard ridges of his cock against me, temporarily blanking my mind.
“But I had something important to discuss.” I perched on his lap, sensing where his mind had fled.
“You can still do that,” he pointed out.
I shoved my libido aside and thrust the documents to his chest. He glanced at the pages before grabbing them. I nervously hovered while he perused the numbers. Trepidation set in when he said nothing. Perhaps I was mistaken, though I looked it over numerous times.
I glowed when I caught a hint of… pride?... flash in his eyes. “You’re impressed.”
He gave nothing away, eyes roaming the documents.
I grinned from ear to ear. “You are more obsessed with me than ever before, aren’t you?”
He appeared amused. “Obviously.”
I rolled my eyes and bristled when he added nothing more to our banter. When I tried to move off his lap, the arm around my waist tightened.
“I owe you one, little genius.”
I tried but couldn’t stop the ridiculously foolish smile from stretching over my face. Giddy to have found this man’s approval and him “owing me one” had an indisputable high.
Before I could bask in it, Brandon shocked me again. “Thank you, Mia.”
I blinked.
Had he ever said those words to anyone, unless sarcastically?
This man’s approval was drugging, but his gratitude was genuine. It was addicting. It was everything.
After that day, Brandon found one project or another to keep me occupied in his apartment. No one wanted my help at home, brushing off my efforts. Meanwhile, Brandon appreciated my help with important things like researching companies for his next big investment, reconciling his transactions, and logging in his receipts.
Soon, returning home started to feel like a chore. In any case, whenever I ventured home, Brandon drove me back to his apartment. The mini kidnappings resulted in my vehement complaints that I needed my things if I were to spend all day at his condo.
“So, bring your stuff here,” he slipped it in casually. “I’ll get you an extra set of keys.”
“Here?” I looked around his immaculate apartment, not a hair out of place. Brandon grew up as an only child. He was used to his privacy and was set in his way. Everything was orderly in his home, and no one dared to disturb the perfectly synchronized flow.
I grew up with a large, insane family. We interfered in each other’s lives, went through each other’s things without a second thought, and I had developed a terrible habit of snooping. None of my siblings respected privacy, nor had I been taught the meaning of the word. Everything I owned was public property, and not a stitch of it was systematic.
His apartment wouldn’t last a day in my anarchy.
Nonetheless, I humored him. Piles of my books, tablets, clothing, and projects took over his beautiful condo. Most were placed in the middle of his pristine living room.
It annoyed the shit out of Brandon, but he’d do nothing more than throw dirty looks at my newest pile. Occasionally, he’d mutter Italian curse words, which sounded so sexy it barely deterred my efforts. I assumed he’d eventually tire of it and kick me out. Instead, I realized I was unofficially living with Brandon. It dawned on me around mid-summer when my closet appeared light in its possessions.
“Leave it. I’ll throw it in the wash,” he’d suggest, convincing me to leave behind another article of clothing.
“How am I supposed to go home?”
